The Dying Type
by Spinesless
Summary: Merlin tries to end his life for unknown reasons. Arthur swears they should have seen some sort of self-destructive signs, but what if there hadn't been any? Contains attempted suicide, mentions of self harm.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: This story contains attempted suicide, mentions of self harm, and a bit of harsh language. I do not own BBC Merlin.**

**A/N: This will most likely be a two- or three-shot. Thank you for reading. Review, please, if you would be so inclined.**

* * *

Dread causes his insides to fall out onto the floor.

Legs move of their own accord, they cross the dimly lit room in four brief strides and deposit him beside the body. Blood soaks through the knees of his trousers and he takes care not to notice, but he does, and there's blood everywhere. Like twin rivers, it flows from vertical cuts on the marble skin of parallel wrists, pooling under them both. How much blood does a body contain? How much can one lose before they are irrevocably lost?

He puts pressure on the wound, tries to dam up the current, slow it somehow. He calls the name of the man on the floor, over and over, like a plea. "Merlin, Merlin, please wake up––" Blood-stained hands trying to shake the man awake but his head lulls and his eyes are open and unseeing. He tastes panic in the form of bile rising in his throat and he wants to scream, to cry for someone, anyone.

His voice is hoarse and by the time he realizes that he is screaming he can not stop. People fill the room in slews and someone is tearing the body from his arms, an urgent "Arthur! There's nothing more you can do––" in his ear.

* * *

_He'sdeadhe'sdeadhe'sdeadhe'sdead––_

* * *

Hands running through hair and the stifled sounds of Guinevere crying into a sodden handkerchief, he paces their chamber and Arthur, who had never been one for religion, prays with every fibre of his being. He prays to the force that makes the seasons change, that causes the sun to rise and set everyday. Whether that force is the result of magic or something Divine, he doesn't care. He prays to this power: please, let him live.

Arthur thinks that this is his fault. He he thinks that he should have noticed something, he should have confronted Merlin, should have talked to him more. For a brief moment he tried to reckon with himself that this, this _incident_––was unprovoked, and maybe it was, and maybe they were all complete blind, daft fools.

Arthur shakes so hard he fears he will absolutely fall to bits.

As time passes he starts to think that Merlin really has died. His trusted friend and advisor, the only man in Camelot that isn't the least bit intimidated of him, not since the first day their paths crossed forever. And at this point, Arthur starts to panic, because he doesn't know what he will do in a world without Merlin, without his right hand man standing patiently at his side. It's a dark world to think about and he wants to _stop_ thinking about it, but every time he closes his eyes he sees Merlin on his chamber floor, the fire dying in the hearth as he dies before it. There's blood everywhere and the ornate dagger Arthur had given to Merlin months ago lay inches from his curled fingers.

Gwen notices his distress and goes to say something, but before she can there's a knock on the door and entersan angel in the form of a young woman. Her hair is pulled into a loose chignon, bits of hair escaping, and there's a spot of blood on her sleeve. She has the most peculiar eyes that Arthur has the composure to notice; a dark gray, almost silver. She falters at the sight of the king and Queen clasped together, looking towards her in earnest. Remembering her place, the woman drops into a deep bow. When she surfaces, she says three words: "Sir Merlin lives," and relief crashes over Arthur in heavy waves.

"Can we see him?" Guinevere asks, eyes red.

The young woman looks at them and she knows that nothing she says will stop them from going, and inclines her head respectably in submission.

* * *

He lays on the bed in the centre of the room. The same bed he had first laid on years earlier, writhing in pain from a goblet of poisoned wine. He laid there a number of times since then, being patched up from various injuries, bruises being bandages, fevers being checked. A hundred times over, they had nearly lost him. And a hundred times over, he had come back.

Merlin is so pale his skin is translucent, no color at all in his sharply angled face. Shadows, like smudges of coal dust, sit below his closed eyes and below that his cheekbones jut out more than they ought to. His arms are draped over the duvet, sleeves rolled to the elbow and clean, white bandages wrap themselves up to the middle of his forearm.

Arthur doesn't think he looks real. He looks like a glass statuette, beautiful but dangerously delicate. Merlin has always had a touch of that fragility to him, it shines in his impossibly blue eyes. Those who look upon him are always overwhelmed with the urge to protect him, to keep him safe. But Merlin is not so breakable. There is an unknown strength in him, one more than just magic.

Gaius is finishing washing his hands off in a basin in the corner of the room when they enter, briefly nodding his head to Arthur. "Sire."

"Gaius."

Gwen detaches herself from Arthur and takes up the seat beside Merlin, hands clenched in her lap. She looks like she wants to take his hand, but decides against it, swallowing thickly.

"How––" Arthur clears his throat. "How is he?"

With a slight sigh, Gaius sets down the towel on a potion strewn table. "He lost a lot of blood, but I am confident he will live. If you hadn't found him, Arthur..." He trails off, unwilling to elaborate.

"Gaius," the King starts, voice low. "What could have––could it––could he have been attacked? Made to look like––?"

The physician gives him an even look. Despite the aching sadness is his eyes, his gaze is steady. Arthur can only imagine what this must to doing to Gaius. Merlin had been like a son to him. He had seen him hurting too many times. "The mind works in mysterious ways, Arthur. I do not know of incident in particular that could have set this off, but there does not necessarily need to be a reason." He grows quiet and Arthur recognizes that he is searching inside for a memory, something said by Merlin, an offhand quip, perhaps, with darker intentions. Arthur reckons he will not find one.

The truth is, Merlin had been fading for a while now. A dimness had grown in his eyes, starting out as a pinprick and spreading. Recently, he had seemed all not there, absent not always physically, but Arthur found he had been trailing off mid-sentence, coming to with a dazed look, skipping meals, having little to offer at council meetings. He had grown distant, but shrugged off all displays of concern. Arthur figured he had just been moody, and then, that very night, at the celebration, Merlin had laughed. He had smiled and spoken and been present, returning to himself for an evening.

A calm before the storm.

Arthur cant bear to be there any longer, even though he's only been there a moment. Not in the death room.

Before he leaves, he turns to the young healer, the one with eyes of steel, and asks her her name. She looks taken aback to have been addressed directly by the King himself. Eyes wide, she manages to answer. "Delilah, sire."

With a nod, he excuses himself. Guinevere does not follow.

* * *

Arthur finds himself wandering the castle. He realizes that he is hiding, and is overcome with shame, face flushing red. He's sure that his knights are worried ill over Merlin, Sir Gawaine especially. They had always been overly fond of Merlin, even when he had been Arthur's manservant, cleaning his boots. But Arthur can't face them, not now, anyway.

He with a jolt of realization, finds himself back in front of Merlin's chamber door. He does not remember how he got here. He does not want to be here. This may be, in fact, the last place on earth he wishes to be.

He does not want to open the door.

He does not want to see the puddle of impossibly red blood––Merlin's. Impossibly. Red. Blood.

But instead he pushes open the door.

Inside, the fire has finally died. No candles are lit, the only source of light being the risen moon that shines in through the window. Arthur skirts around the shadowed pool of blood, past the splattered blade and sits himself down on the edge of Merlin's bed. He lets his head hang in his hands and wonders what would drive his beloved friend to take his own life. He is baffled. Completely, utterly baffled. He had thought that ever since steps to legalizing magic had been taken, everything would get better. Evidently not.

God. What a time that had been. Arthur is not proud of what he had done when it had been revealed that Merlin had magic, but he had felt so _betrayed_ by his dearest friend. Time after time, he had found those closest to him to be traitors, and then Merlin had _magic_––forever! Merlin, the bumbling idiot, the clumsy, endearing servant was actually Emrys, the omnipotent warlock, a prophecy in his name.

Who would have guessed?

Suddenly frustrated, Arthur punches Merlin's pillow, knocking it onto the floor. Why'd the blasted idiot always have to be so damn _infuriating_? Why had it been so hard for him to _say_ something, tell him or Gaius or Gwen that he had been feeling sad or hopeless? Why had it taken him so long to trust Arthur? _God damn you, Merlin_.

Arthur lets out a strangled sigh, tears stinging his eyes. His anger is misdirected, of course. He shouldn't be angry at Merlin; he should be angry at himself for not noticing. For failing to realize signs in front of him, clear as day. Maybe if he had been more perceptive, he would have realized ages ago that Merlin had magic. Maybe if he had been more perceptive, he could have stopped the blade from opening his veins.

Determined not to cry, Arthur bends down to gather the pillow. As he goes to replace it, he suddenly freezes.

There, in the space where the pillow should be, sits a cloth bag. It's tied with a silken ribbon and is smaller than the span of Arthur's palm. Heart in his throat, Arthur picks it up with a shaking hand and brings it close to his face, holding his breath.

On the bag and ribbon are burned the shapes of tiny runes.

He let's the pillow fall and is out of the room before it hits the floor.

* * *

**Suicide is preventable. **

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**UK - 08457 90 90 90**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: This story contains attempted suicide, mentions of self harm, and a bit of harsh language. I do not own Merlin.**

**A/N: This will probably be a fourshot um. I'm sure that if I had the effort/ability/skill to write longer chapters, it would only be a twoshot, however, that is not the case. Most appreciated for all the reviews so far. Thank you for reading, and please drop a comment if you would like. Feedback is pretty awesome!**

* * *

He is a jumble of nerves and coils, tightening tightening tightening until he is primed to snap. Every servant opening the door is actually Gaius coming to tell him that Merlin's condition has changed, that he's not going to make it, that he's dying.

Arthur knows he's being ridiculous, but he can't help it.

When Gaius does finally come knocking Arthur rises from his seat with breakneck speed, almost upsetting his chair in the process. He places down the quill with trembling fingers, knowing Gaius would not interrupt a council session without proper cause. "Please, excuse us," he says to those gathered at the table, voice shaking. They gather their papers and exit wordlessly, save for a grumble or two.

The late-afternoon sun casts shadows through the stained glass windows, patterning the room in a myriad of colors and shapes. Arthur would find this quite lovely at any other time but the present. When he and Gaius are alone, Arthur speaks: "Well?" His heart is hammering in his ribcage but he cannot read Gaius's lined face.

"Merlin awakened not an hour ago, sire."

The feeling of relief is so overwhelming, Arthur collapses into the chair and buries his face in his hands. His dread is assuaged and unreal after all day of nearly panicking. He could almost laugh.

"How is he, Gaius?" the king asks, exhaustion staining his voice. "Has he said anything?"

"No, sire."

Arthur frowns, a crease forming in his brow. "He has said nothing? Nothing at all?"

Gaius shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. Not because he is physically unable, however; he has much to process."

"Yes, I––I suppose he does." A brief lull, Arthur pauses to collect himself. He rubs his shoulder, rolls his neck, and has a breath, unsure how to continue.

"Tell me, Gaius, have you looked into the, ah, the poultice that I collected last night? You told me when I saw you last that you believed it to have been enchanted."

A short nod. "I have done much research into the runes of the parcel. The poultice is, indeed, enchanted."

"With what sort of spell?" Though, he could guess.

"An emotional spell, sire, like a love spell although with, dare I say, a more sinister intent. The runes on the poultice are those of desolation and darkness, intending to throw the receiver into a sort of pit of depression. The poultice strengthens with age, so it is presumed to have been there for some while."

Arthur shakes his head. "What a foul, foul thing. But––hang on––" Realization dawns on him. "Are you telling me we have _another_ mole in the castle?"

"Not necessarily, sire," Gaius covers quickly. "The poultice wouldn't have to have been changed, just placing it once would suffice. It is more likely that whoever put it there did just that, and then left."

"Merlin doesn't let the servants clean his chambers. Otherwise I'm sure it would have been found much sooner. Humble _bastard_," Arthur swears. "What was even the _point_, Gaius? There's a million faster and easier ways to kill a man."

"That, I do not know, Arthur."

A haggard sigh. "Does this enchantment have a _cure_, by any chance? I don't want Merlin trying to kill himself every time we turn our backs on him––" _Why would you say that oh god why would you say that_

Gaius looks at him sternly and Arthur hides his face again. "It doesn't, besides removing the source of the enchantment, which, in this case, is the poultice, which you have already done. We will just have to wait for the effects of the enchantment to fade."

"How––How long will that be?"

A shrug. "Could be a matter of weeks, or months."

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Make sure Merlin feels safe and loved. Make him comfortable. We'll just have to be patient, Arthur."

* * *

The king is tired.

Last night, after delivering the suspicious parcel to Gaius he ran into who else, but Sir _Gawaine, _of all people. The knight confronted him immediately, asking quick, pressured questions. Something about Merlin being injured? Arthur, do you know anything about this? And, with a heavy heart, the king had told him what had occurred.

His already fracture composure continued to splinter as he watched his friend's emotions splayed out clear as day on his face. Hurt and concern and an uncompromising sorrow, Arthur had to look away. When he ceased speaking, Gawaine swallowed, eyes shining. He looked as if he wanted to say something, challenge Arthur and the events that had occurred, ask _why _they had occurred. He didn't; instead, the knight took off without a word in the direction of Gaius's chambers.

Arthur made his way to his own room, steps heavy, and collapsed into bed. A half hour later, Guinevere slipped in and he held her as her cries dwindled into heavy breathing, but even then the troubled king could not sleep.

With similar heavy steps he makes his way down to court physicians chambers and pauses outside the door. He doesn't know if he wants to go in or not. He doesn't know if he's ready to see Merlin broken on the bed again. He's courageless in this instance.

_Open the damn door_, a voice within him hisses and he brings his fist up. _Go on_. He knocks twice and the door swings open, revealing the slight figure of Gaius's apprentice––Delilah. She lets out a sharp squeak and drops into a curtsey. "My lord!"

"I'm here to see Sir Merlin," Arthur says. "If that's alright, of course." He tries to peer around her into the room.

"Y-Yes, I––" She glances behind her. Gaius, who is in the room, frowns, but nods.

"Please, come in." She opens the door wider and Arthur enters, bracing himself one last time as he approaches Merlin's bedside.

The court sorcerer is asleep, or appears to be so, anyway. His eyes are closed, and while he is still on the pale side of normal, he is not as sallow as the night before.

"When will he be well enough to be moved?"

Gaius's frown deepens. "Moved, sire?"

"Yes." Arthur tears his eyes from his broken friend. "You said, in order to speed his recovery, we should make him comfortable." He swallows around the knot in his throat. Oh, blast it.

The physician's expression softens. "In the next day or two, I think."

Arthur nods roughly. _Why did I come here why did I come here who decided this was a good idea––_

Gaius sharpens his gaze. "Did you, perchance, sleep at all last night, sire?"

The king waves him off. "Do not disquiet yourself on my account, Gaius."

The old physician lets out a laugh, startling him. "Oh, Your Highness, I am per_petually_ disquieted."

Arthur allows himself a small smile. "I will be sure to get a good nights' rest tonight, Gaius, just for you."

"Would you like a draught? I'm sure I have one here, ready made. Delilah, if you would––"

"No, thank you, that will not be necessary."

A nod. "If you insist, Arthur."

The king sits on the three-legged stool by the bed. He rests his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped at his chin and surveys Merlin intently, watching the blanket rise and fall slightly with each priceless breath. It hurts to think how close he was to losing him. He has tried not to dwell on the fact but it kept coming back to him, all day. All the close calls––for both of them, really. Arthur was no stranger to death but somehow it always crept up on him. Goes to show, death is the one thing that man will never escape.

_It's getting late_, something within gives him him a prod. _You should get a move on, go down to dinner, eat with your Queen_. _Standing over Merlin like he will cease breathing is unhealthy for everyone in this room_.

Arthur blinks. His internal voice is right, this time at least. He looks up. "I should be going," he says, and rises. "If you need anything, anything at all, just ask."

Gaius respectably inclines his head from the desk off to the side. "Thank you, sire."

Arthur gets halfway across the room before he forces himself to glance back. With a jolt, he realizes that Merlin is staring back. His blue eyes are slightly red and reflect back each others' own exhaustion. Arthur wants to say something, anything, but he is frozen, words jumbled in his throat. Merlin blinks and closes his eyes once more.

* * *

**Suicide is preventable. Call:**

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**UK - 08457 90 90 90**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: This story contains attempted suicide, mentions of self harm, and a bit of harsh language. I do not own Merlin.**

* * *

**A/N: This chapter was exceedingly difficult to write, and I'm still not completely happy with it, so feedback is very much appreciated. One more installment left, after this. ****Thank you so much for reading!**

* * *

It's not much.

The weight pressing on his chest hasn't been miraculously lifted. It's still there, still threatening to snap his spine in two if he moves quick enough, still making his ribs protest with every breath. The haze over his mind still lingers, very much present. He still feels that heavy stiffness, the ache that is anchored to his soul, body, being.

It's not a large change, he doesn't feel it when he first wakes up. He doesn't even feel it the second or third time he wakes up, but it's there. Just a shift. The barest minimum. But it is a start.

He's not too happy to be alive, if he's honest. Stupid Merlin, clumsy Merlin, babbling, simple, _useless_ Merlin, can't even kill himself right. He's smothered by shame. If he was dead, he wouldn't have to deal with people's suffocating pity, the same look on their faces when they came to visit him.

It's sickening.

And they all want to know _why_. _Why_, Merlin, did you try and kill yourself? Why do you want to die so badly?

_Why_? There is no 'why'.

There isn't a way to explain this _thing_ within him, eating away at his insides until he is hollow, until he is fully consumed. There is no way to explain the fog in his head, the pause with every lift of a blade or glance over a wall. He can't explain wondering what it would be like to not exist, to have no more responsibilities, to be free of this ghastly destiny, to see those long lost once more. He can't explain it, so he doesn't try. He doesn't say anything, not to anyone. When they come and talk, he stares straight ahead and tries not to listen.

* * *

He awakens sometime in the late afternoon, letting himself come to slowly before opening his eyes. Golden light floods the room; he must remind someone to close the curtains later. He figures he could do it himself with magic, but doesn't feel like trying. He doesn't feel like doing most things, really. Just sleeping.

The tray with his lunch still sits on the bedside table. The food is mostly untouched, bread staling in the open air.

It's the second day he's spent under a sort of house arrest in his chambers. Well, no, not house arrest. He's sure that if he asked to leave, someone would let him. A guard is staged at his door, yes, but he's there to ensure that Merlin doesn't try to kill himself again, despite the removal of anything even slightly sharp from his room. Gaius protests that it's a bit much, but Arthur is relentless.

_Arthur_.

Merlin rolls over and faces the wall. He's due for a visit, isn't he? Unless he came while Merlin was asleep, which was possible, but Merlin doubts it.

Gaius came this morning. He brought with him several potions and extra bandages for Merlin's arms. The physician preached to him the importance of eating, he needs to eat to regain his strength, from all the blood lost. He threatened him, saying that if he doesn't start eating soon, he'll be restrained and force-fed. It's an amusing image, Merlin admits, to imagine anyone going against the all powerful Emrys (but he's not all powerful right now, is he?). Merlin managed to down one of the six potions Gaius brought with him, though; a start. Gaius hadn't said anything after that, just sort of changed Merlin's bandages and sighed a lot.

It had been Gaius that had told him about the enchantment.

The news was frustrating because Merlin didn't––still doesn't––know what to do with this piece of information. It doesn't make him feel better knowing that it was an external force acting upon him and not his own mind breaking down, because it still doesn't change anything. He's still stuck at the bottom of this pit, and with no cure to the enchantment, things aren't looking up.

He doesn't like to think about it; it gives him a headache.

Gwen visited a little while after Gaius left, bringing smiles and her embroidery. She sat in the well-worn chair at Merlin's bedside and rattled off little going ons of the castle, which nobles were visiting soon, those she tolerates and those she loathes, snippets of gossip here and there. The first few times she came by, either back when Merlin was still in the physician chambers, or in his room, Gwen had ended her visits teary-eyed.

That's the worst part, Merlin thinks, other people's emotions, more directly, their sadness. At him, and also at themselves. Like they could have done anything to stop him.

And maybe they could have. Merlin doesn't know. Merlin doesn't really care, either.

He wonders if he can lie in bed forever.

Probably not.

Someone had brought Merlin his lunch, but he didn't know who, or if it had just been a servant. He had been facing the wall, trying to sleep.

A half-hour after that, Sir Gawaine came by for a visit, grabbing an apple off Merlin's tray. "Blimey, mate!" he had exclaimed. "You're getting thin." His quest for sleep had been unsuccessful.

Merlin thinks he likes Gawaine's visits the best. The others tiptoe around him, like he's a bomb waiting to go off, or something. But Gawaine just dropped himself into the seat and reclined, feet on the table, and went off. He told far fetched stories, usually of his adventures over the years, himself the hero and usually resulting in the rescue a fair maiden. The most ridiculous of tales, they almost brought a shadow of a smile to Merlin's face.

"You don't suppose you feel like eating today, do you, mate?" Gawaine held out the apple, like he expected Merlin to take it.

And he did in fact eye the piece of fruit, considering his options. If he took it, the others might take that as a sign that Merlin was getting better.

Is he getting better?

Does the shift count?

He had thought too long.

In the end, he hadn't taken the apple. Gawaine shrugged and took a bite out of it. "Suit your self."

Yes, Merlin considers now, the sun getting lower. Arthur is due for a visit. He could recognize the man's footprints from three leagues away, so when he had previously heard him coming the day before and the one before that, he rolled over, pretending to be asleep. Merlin's feigning sleep worked out, seeing as neither the King nor the Court Sorcerer were ready to talk to each other. Just that morning, however, when she was about to leave, Gwen had sighed, put down her embroidery, and leaned forward.

"You should really stop avoiding him, you know. He's impossibly contrite, worries about you terribly."

Merlin's thoughts are scattered. Too many people telling him too many things. Too many variables to consider, too much _feeling_. The weight on his chest takes his breath away and he feels the beginnings of a headache stretch over the membrane of his mind. He closes his eyes and drifts, trying to block out bits of everything.

When he comes to again, the sun has set and it's early evening, his room dimly lit. He rolls over, groggy from all the sleeping. His eyes widen and with a jolt he recognizes the person at his bedside vigil.

Their eyes meet, both pairs of stormy blue, and both men freeze, locked in each other's gaze. Arthur looks just as surprised as Merlin feels. He clears his throat. Opens his mouth. Swallows.

"Hello."

Merlin blinks in response.

"You...can hear me, right?"

A scowl. The slight facial expression brings relief to Arthur's. "I thought you had become comatose. Vegative. Unresponsive." Arthur gestures vaguely to his head. Merlin stares blankly back.

The king continues. "I feel like our meeting is long overdue." His voice is low and he doesn't look directly at Merlin. The flickering candles cast long shadows over his hardened face. Merlin notices how much older Arthur looks; he's had to grow up so fast in the past few years.

"I just––I want to apologize. For. For not being there, when you needed me. I should have done something, but I've been so caught up in––in _politics, _that I couldn't see. Clear as day, in front of my eyes, I should have known that _something_ was wrong, I––" Arthur swallows. "I didn't. I'm sorry. Truly, impossibly, sorry." He looks up then, waiting for an answer, a response, a "Don't worry Arthur, it's not your fault." But nothing comes.

Arthur clenches his fist. "Do you have _nothing_ to say?" he wants to shout, but he doesn't. He just wants Merlin to talk. He fills the silence with words.

"When I was younger, I thought that to acknowledge emotions was to be weak." His palms are sweaty. "When you're trained as a knight, you're taught to keep fighting until the absolute end. Fear isn't factored in. Emotions aren't really factored in at all. But I see now, I've seen for a while, now, that emotions aren't harmful, but repressing them is. Emotions and feelings deserve to be felt, and being sad or being angry, well, those aren't bad things. We shouldn't be punished for being human." Arthur looks down. "That was one thing my father could never quite grasp."

"What I am trying to say, Merlin, is that no one blames you for your actions." He looks right at the man. "It wasn't cowardly. It wasn't weak. And I am sorry you had to endure so long."

Merlin stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused and glossy. He doesn't look alive, Arthur thinks, and with a heavy heart, he starts to rise from the seat.

"D'you remember when I told you I had magic?"

He almost falls on his face sitting back down. Arthur cringes inwardly, because yes, he does remember that day. He's smacked with memories of half-blinding anger and betrayal manifesting itself as physical pain and the stinging of a hand and tears.

Merlin turns his head, looking directly at his king, not scrutinizing, not judging. He pulls the blanket to his jaw. "You hit me."

Arthur swallows around the lump in his throat. "Yeah, I did." he says. "And you stayed."

"Of course I stayed. Wasn't going to let one wayward punch dissuade me. Destiny isn't so easily deterred." The bandages on his wrist and the fact that he's still alive are proof of that.

"Why'd you do this, Merlin?"

"Wanted to see what would happen."

"No, seriously."

"No, seriously."

Arthur takes a shaky breath. "That's a shit reason to scare so many people and you know it, and if that's the real reason––to _see what would happen_––then you're a proper bastard, you are, if only for making my wife cry."

"Gwen cried––?"

"Every night since. What about Gaius, hmm? He's been ill with worry and with _grief, _and, and, what about _me, _Merlin? What am I supposed to do with out you, huh? I'm not talking about advice or counsel or even magic, I'm talking about you."

Merlin doesn't want to do this right now. "Surely Gaius told you, about the enchantment."

"I don't _have _a reason, Arthur. I wasn't thinking about Gwen or Gaius or _you_, I was thinking about not being so––so––_sad_ anymore! No more darkness. No more struggling to wake up, to eat, to work to smile to _breathe_. I'm sorry you were hurt, truly, genuinely sorry."

Arthur's breath hitches. "The enchantment has been lifted," he says. "We'll reverse the effects. You won't have to live like that anymore."

"There's no counter for it," Merlin says.

"No," Arthur affirms. "But it will fade, over time."

Merlin looks at him, eyes illuminated in the dying light and he looks so painfully _frightened_, Arthur feels his heart shatter further. "How much time?" Because he can't go on like this anymore.

The king grasps Merlin's hand in both of his, holding it to his forehead. "I don't know, Merlin, but I swear on the stars above that you no longer have to suffer alone."

Merlin looks at him wistfully. "That's all I've ever wanted, you know."

"What?"

"To not be alone."

* * *

**Suicide is preventable. Call:**

**US - 1 800 273 8255**

**UK - 08457 90 90 90**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: This story contains attempted suicide, mentions of self harm, and a bit of harsh language. I do not own Merlin. **

* * *

**A/N: Well, hear we are, the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has stayed with this story, read it, and reviewed. Your words mean the world to me. To those who are fighting their own depression, I wish you the best of luck, and my heart goes out to you. **

**Thank you for reading. Feedback is much appreciated. **

**(Also: I have a plot bunny rattling around in my head, so expect a new story soon!)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

He gets visitors.

They range from trodden peasants from the far corners of the kingdom to highly esteemed nobles. Some bring gifts. Jewels, silver, gold. Trinkets, carvings, elegant boxes and daggers, clever toys. Amulets to promote healing. Velvet bags of natural crystals. Most, however, just bring their thanks.

Those he tended to under the care of Gaius, those whom he helped with a slight chore. Even people he simply said 'hello' to everyday in the market, a greeting presented with a genuine smile.

To those who lived in the villages closest to the citadel, he was known as Arthur's manservant, the funny fellow who always seemed to get himself in trouble (and in the stocks), inseparable from the prince years ago and now from the king.

A whole family is ushered into Merlin's room one afternoon. He wasn't under house arrest by the king any longer, but Gaius confined him to his bed.

The family consisted of a mother, a father, and a small girl clutching a husk doll. They thanked him, for he had blessed their crops many months ago, when magic was first legalized. Their fields had gone from dry, dead, and dusty to lush and plentiful in a matter of weeks.

He didn't even remember doing so, was almost sure the family was mistaken, but from the looks on their faces, so humbled and so eternally appreciative, he knew they weren't.

He could barely manage to utter a hoarse, "You're welcome."

Jesters come. Artists. Magicians. Poets and writers who tell tales of a great magician who helped the realization of a noble king and bring an always nameless kingdom to its height.

"Why are you doing this," Merlin asks Arthur one day, over lunch. (The king has threatened to throw him in the dungeons if he doesn't start eating.)

"Doing what?" Arthur teases.

Merlin gestures to his newly acquired gifts, perching on odd posts all around the room. "Telling people to send me things. It's completely unnecessary." Merlin furrows his brow. Living as a poor man for the majority of his life, he didn't have much, and even now found no time for frivolous collections. "I don't want anything."

"I didn't tell anyone to send you anything, ungrateful git."

"Then what _did _you tell them?" Merlin swirls his porridge around the bowl.

"I simply sent out a proclamation."

"Oh, _Arthur––_"

"––Announcing that Sir Merlin is ill, suffering from a rather potent bought of magically induced melancholia. And that he needs cheering up."

"_Arthur._" Exasperation is clear in his voice and the bowl almost goes tumbling to the floor. "_Why_?"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur says, "you need to get better. And I'm all for anything to speed up the healing process. And so should you."

"It just seems so unnecessary."

"What, the proclamation? Well, I'll admit, perhaps it's a bit excessive, but many people have come to you, no? They bring their gratitude, because you have done so much for this kingdom over the years, as court sorcerer or just as a clumsy servant. You're _needed_ here, Merlin, in Camelot." His eyes are pleading. "I need you to see that."

Merlin blinks slowly. Arthur clears his throat and continues.

"I need you to be able to see how coveted you are, in case the darkness ever comes back. In case you ever feel useless. Your people need you, Merlin." Arthur sticks a piece of food in his gob and looks directly at his friend. "_I _need you. And I'm not going to lose you ever again."

The king spoke casually, matter-of-factly, like they were simply discussing the weather or grain quota that month, but there is a harsh seriousness in Arthur's words, reflected back in his gaze.

Merlin swallows around the lump in his throat. The cold porridge has been discarded, one of his hands clenching around the blanket draped across him.

In the smallest voice he can muster, he says, "I'm not going anywhere, Arthur."

When he dares to look up, Arthur beams like sunlight.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The sun is warm on his face.

From the window of his bedroom, he can see Camelot thriving. People bustling in the marketplace, the cries of hagglers just barely reaching him. Those in the courtyard, coming and going and pausing and speaking. If he turns his head he can see the knights training in the distance, the sound clanking of swords distinct in the air. Mountains in the distance, a light smattering of clouds partially covering the sky, perhaps bringing with them rain later in the week.

His kingdom.

Well, no, not quite. Arthur's kingdom. In a way, it's his, too, for all that he's done for it. Protecting and helping and molding it. He watches over it now just like the fates cast, forever and a lifetime ago when history was first being written. Emrys and the King of Albion. Merlin and Arthur.

He's been feeling better, as of late. He talks and eats and laughs and jokes. He smiles.

But there are some bad days. Days where everything is gloom and gray and the darkness with it's tendrils, luring him back. He sleeps for hours and dreams of red and feelings of despair and hate and heaviness. But he can fight it, now, knock away its hold on him, remove some of the weight from his chest.

He sits in front of the window now, blanket draped across his shoulders, head leaning back. Arthur's heart almost stopped when he first walked in on him like that, sitting quiet and still. It stirred up memories of his father after Morgana's betrayal, when he had become lost to the world. But this was a good sign, he had to remind himself. Merlin is coming back to them.

There's a sound in the hallway, a bit of a muffed scuffling, but it doesn't register to Merlin. The door opens but there's no greeting, so it's not someone he knows. A bit of irritation crosses his mind, he hopes it's not another person paying their respects, he made it clear that today he does not want to be disturbed.

Merlin turns in his seat to see who it is and is slightly surprised.

By the door stands Gaius's apprentice, a tray of food in her arms. Both their gazes shoot to the food on the bedside table, already half-eaten. Merlin blinks. So does the girl.

Something is not right. That much is obvious.

Merlin frowns slightly and gathers his blanket, rising on shaking legs. "Gaius's memory going, then?" he suggests with a gesture to her and the tray. "Or is he just really adamant about me eating?" He approaches a table in the centre of the room, the girl, Delilah, opposite him.

She gives a bit of a sigh, glances at the food, and shrugs. She drops the tray on the table where it clatters and spills. "Neither." A string of words leave her lips and Merlin is blown backwards into the wall.

He doesn't lose consciousness, at least not fully. Everything goes dark but for just a moment. _Shake it off_, he tells himself, blinking back to the present. He's on the ground, staring at the hem of a skirt and a pair of dusty shoes.

"Why are you so hard to _kill_?" she asks.

Merlin bites back the urge to groan and slowly slides into a somewhat upright position. "Fair question," he says, holding his head. "You're the one who enchanted me, I presume?"

"Took you all long enough to figure it out." She rolls her eyes. "I was getting bored waiting for it to take affect. Your mentor, the old man, he never shuts _up_."

Merlin freezes. "What did you do to Gaius." His voice is stone cold and deadly serious.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

He reaches for his magic, plunging into the seeming inexhaustible source within. He grasps around, but everything is clumsy, uncertain. It slips through his grasp. The enchantment, and lack of use causing this.

"You have magic," he deduces. "Why do you want to kill me?"

"Why do I want to kill you?" she laughs. "What, you think that because you forced the King's hand and he instilled some shabby, vague laws involving magic, you're exempt from all assassination attempts?"

"I'm a bit confused, is all." Merlin gingerly feels the back of his head. "Seeing as, magic is legal, and all––"

"You're a _traitor!_" She screams, silencing him. "You had magic all those years you worked for _Uther Pendragon_, the bane of us all, yet you did _nothing_. You sat by and watched him slaughter even more of your own kind, hell, you probably _aided _him!"

"I work with Arthur. Not Uther. Besides, Uther Pendragon is long dead, and his laws repealed. You live in the past––"

"He is Uther's son. Your relationship with the king doesn't undo twenty years of _genocide_, Emrys."

"_I know that!_" His voice is louder, louder than hers, and his holds power where hers lacks. "This vendetta you hold is unwarranted, stupid girl. Your logic is tragically flawed, as are your methods. Enchanting a man to become so depressed he kills himself? Not quite foolproof. Cowardly. Unconfrontational. Would a dagger not suffice? Did you want to discredit me? Please, I so wish to be enlightened of the logic behind your process."

Her steely eyes are focused solely on the man on the floor before her and she takes several steps back. Merlin thinks he can shake some sense into her yet.

But her features become a mask and she tilts her head slightly. "Do you know what the penalty for treason is, Emrys?" Her eyes glow gold and he cries out, but she seems not to hear him. "Death._ Ástandan_."

Merlin is wrenched upward, feet barely touching the floor. His world spins.

"I want you to burn, Emrys. Like so many did before you. _Forbærne yf_––"

There's dull successive sounds and a _shnk_ and the blade of a sword suddenly protrudes from the chest of the young magician. She looks down, surprised, then back up at Merlin. The words are stuck in her throat and she chokes, eyes rolling backward. The sword is drawn from her body and she collapse in a pile on the ground. As she dies, Merlin is relinquished, hitting the floor two moments after her and everything goes dark.

Someone is shaking him, gently but urgently. There's a yelling in his ear and Merlin blinks his eyes open, though he cant recall closing them in the first place.

"Arthur?" he asks because yes, of course.

The king is crouched on the floor in front of him and Merlin watches as the fear on his face is replaced with sweet relief. "Are you alright?"

"No, not really. I was almost killed. _Again_."

"Yes, I noticed. We really must stop doing this," Arthur says.

"?" Merlin asks, head aching too much to form a coherent sentence.

"You, on your chamber floor. Me, saving your life. Thought by this point you'd be independent enough, but clearly. Clearly. That is untrue."

A realization crashes down on Merlin. "Arthur, shut up. Arthur, Gaius––? W––"

"Yes, of course, he's on the way."

"No, no, wait. You mean, he's––? Unharmed?"

Arthur gives him an odd look. "Yes, of course. Though, I'm afraid he'll be a bit cross I killed his apprentice. We really must start doing some sort of background check on these people. Gaius is fine, Merlin. Why do you ask?"

"Something she said." Merlin shakes his head and regrets it, instantly. He winces.

Arthur's expression softens. "What is it? What hurts?"

"No, no, calm down, I'm fine. Got my head knocked around a bit." His ears are ringing. Okay. Not fine. But in one piece.

"What did she, ah. Want?"

"Why did she try to kill me, you mean?"

"Well. Yes. That too."

Merlin swallows and stares straight ahead. "Oh, you know, the usual. Feels I've betrayed magic users because I had magic the whole time I was your servant and didn't, you know, kill you or Uther, or anything."

"Oh."

The corners of his mouth twitch. "Yeah."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gaius declares he's concussed and Merlin is yet again confined to bed. He sleeps long stretches for a few days, long enough for his head to stop aching and the room to stop spinning and his ears to stop ringing, and for him to regain himself. He's shaken after almost dying twice within the span of a month.

He tries not to let what Delilah said get to him, tries not to let it hinder the healing process, or what have you.

He thinks of it often within the next three days.

He awakens violently from a nightmare, all sweating and gasping and sitting up in bed. He was being burned at the stake in the dream, his assailants unseen. Dreams like that had been common enough when he was still hiding his magic, nightmares about being found out and and being killed at Uther's hand, sometimes Arthur's.

He dreams of his king when he finally gets back to sleep. Nothing too specific, flashes of his coronation and him wielding a blade against some fierce creature. When he awakens next, he's warm and comfortable. He opens his eyes to Arthur himself at his bedside, dozing in the wooden chair.

Merlin breaks out in a grin. "Prat," he calls and Arthur flinches awake, almost knocking his chair over.

Merlin allows himself a laugh and Arthur shoots him a look. "Laugh it up. I've been waiting for your lazy arse to wake up for hours."

"Well. My sincerest apologies, your majesty. If I had known that your serene highness had been waiting on me, I would have awoken sooner."

"No, you wouldn't have."

"You're right, I probably would have slept longer."

"Oi!" but Merlin just laughs.

"What do you want, anyway?" he asks.

"To see how you're doing, of course. You know, assassination attempt and all."

"Oh, right, that. Yes. Almost dying. Extremely unpleasant, I must admit."

"You're alright, though?" Merlin doesn't think he's talking about the concussion.

A small, slightly sad smile. "I will be."

Arthur gives him a small smile, but a whole world is in that look. Relief and hope and he is so damn grateful that he still has him. "Now, Merlin. If you ever get _those_ feelings, at all. Hell, if you feel sad in the slightest, I don't care if the pretty girl at the tavern dumped your ugly arse, or anything, just. Let me know, okay?"

They share each other's gaze. Then, Merlin, "Are you _encouraging _me to whine to you?"

Arthur heaves a sigh. "_Mer_lin––"

"Sorry! Yes, Arthur, I'll talk to you."

"Good." He swallows. "Glad to hear it."

"Hey, Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Say what?"

Merlin grins widely into his lap. "Thank you for saving my life. Twice. And, for being there for me.

"I'm not going anywhere, Merlin. And hell, neither should you. I'm exhausting my self trying to save you, and you know, I might not readily be there with a sword one day."

"I don't think that'll be a problem, Arthur. You and I, we're not really the dying type."

"...The hell's that supposed to mean?"

Merlin laughs. "No idea."

* * *

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